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My dad has a funny way of showing his love for me.

Love in a Walnut

by Gloria Kim

During my growing-up years Dad always believed the right food was the remedy for almost everything. Beets for better blood, walnuts for the brain, ginseng for overall.

Unfortunately, he also knew a lot about Chinese herbs. Our fridge at one time or another preserved thinly sliced deer antlers, shriveled roots, and even a bear's withered gallbladder.

When the chilly air warned of winter, Dad brewed an awful-smelling bitter liquid he made us drink in the mornings before school. I remember Dad's promise: "If you drink this, you won't catch a cold."

I think we would have preferred the cold, but we had no choice. No one knows what he put in the pot. Unidentifiable roots floated on top of the dark liquid, and black clumps of a sticky who-knows-what sank to the bottom.

Growing up in the poor farmlands of Pusan, Korea, Dad considered hunger the sixth family member. Air bombs during the Korean War plunged into the rice fields, destroying the crops and fattening this sixth member while the rest starved.

The gnawing memory of this hunger made health and nutrition of utmost importance in our family. During meals Dad poured cashews, almonds, and dried apricots onto our plates. Then we kids began the game of trying to slip the nutritious snacks back into the jar when Dad wasn't looking.

Dad managed to "nutritionize" everything. When he cooked, we were doomed. You'd think spaghetti was a harmless dish, but we groaned as we chewed on walnut pieces that Dad had ground into the tomato sauce. How we grew to hate those nuts!

Whenever I saw catalogs advertising gift baskets filled with dried fruits and nuts, I'd think, Ugh! Who in the world would want to eat that stuff, let alone give it away? But I have to admit, we were pretty healthy kids.

Outside my window I watch Dad limp across our lawn. Childhood polio had claimed two inches from his left leg but added 10 inches of determination to his character. Dad's always been a fighter.

Even though life has pitched Dad some nasty situations, he's always jumped up to the challenge. Once he told us the story behind the scar on his foot. During his childhood, while digging in the frigid rice paddies, he suddenly noticed blood reddening the waters around him. He realized that the ice-cold water had numbed his foot so thoroughly that he didn't even notice that a hoe had nearly hacked it off.

Suffering and necessity shortened his childhood—made him a man before he was even fully a boy. No time for joking, no time for play. Life meant work. This seriousness stamped itself onto his face.

But though he was usually stern-looking, I remember moments when Dad's softheartedness glimmered through.

One afternoon when I was 5, my brother and I were being punished for some mischief we'd done. Mom made us kneel and hold both arms straight up. Her idea was that eventually our arms would drop in exhaustionand we'd learn our lesson.

Dad came home from work and saw his poor little rascals in the dining room, forced into the stick-em-up position. He got down between both of us, stuck up his own arms, and told us we could each put one of ours down. Mom wasn't too happy with the trade-off, but I've never forgotten it.

We kids realize that Dad loves us more than anything else in the world, but that he loves God most of all. Every morning and evening at home, we would have family worship. But the worships were usually a lot longer than four squirming kids could bear.

One time Dad insisted on reading an extra-long chapter from an Ellen White book. We were still young. One by one we all dozed off on the sofa and eventually awoke when Dad neared the end of the chapter. But even if we didn't remember a whole lot of the worships, the greatest lesson we took with us is that God always comes first.

To Dad, love is action. Personal sacrifices mean "I love you." And food, of course, is how he most often expresses it.

I unfold some of Dad's letters he sent in his care packages during my academy years. Some are scribbled on the backs of memos from pharmaceutical companies. Others are only a couple sentences. But almost every letter mentions advice on food. And without fail his packages contained vitamins or nuts, with written instructions to eat them.

Some things haven't changed over the years, and probably never will. Dad calls. We talk about school, the future, and our family. And sometime during every conversation, there's a pause. I wait.

"Are you eating enough fruits, raw vegetables, and nuts?" Dad asks. "Do you have enough money to eat well?"

"Yes, Dad," I answer, for I know exactly what he's saying. "I love you, too."

Gloria Kim won third prize in the General Short Story category of our 1996 writing contest.